Enchanter's Nightshade

by Ann Bridge

  “Will you come up to the schoolroom, Miss Prestwich— I wish to speak to you,” the Marchesa said.

  Almina followed her upstairs. She was a little surprised to get no commendation for her activities—the Marchesa was usually very generous with the kindly word of praise or thanks —but she was still in her happy mood of humble helpfulness when, in the schoolroom, the Marchesa turned about and faced her.

  “Miss Prestwich, I must ask you to leave my service,” the Marchesa said.

  Almina stared at her, stupid with astonishment.

  “To leave?” she faltered.

  “Yes. You will hardly need to be told why.”

  The girl had turned very white—at the last words the colour rushed into her face. She struggled with herself a moment, and then said, with a painful effort—“I should like to be told why, Marchesa.”

  Suzy tapped on the floor with her foot—she had determined on an icy self-control, but at this show of firmness her temper began to rise.

  “When a governess conducts an intrigue with a young man in her employer’s house, and absents herself from her duties in order to enjoy his society, it is usual to dismiss her,” she said, with bitter coldness.

  Almina, with the misguided shrewdness of youth, seized on the weak point in this indictment.

  “May I know when I have absented myself from my duties to receive Count Roffredo’s addresses?” she asked, choosing by instinct that particular and most wounding phrase.

  Suzy stepped back as if she had been struck.

  “At the picnic,” she said, speaking with difficulty in her effort to control herself. “When you should have been in attendance on my daughter, you were in his arms! It was very well thought of, to return separately, and with flowers in your hand!—but everyone is not quite a fool! You were seen.”

  For some reason, at that Almina’s resistance crumpled. Suzy thought that it was the consciousness of guilt; in fact it was the real hatred in the older woman’s tones which broke her down—she had never in her life heard those accents before, and they appalled her. A sudden realisation of what this meant rushed over her—severance from Roffredo, though bitter, was the least of it; it was the return home, in disgrace, at the outset of her career; the failure of her desires of helping Marietta, being another Gela—the crumbling of all those bright hopes and aspirations, her Mother’s sorrow. She began to tremble all over; she put out a hand to the table by which she stood, to steady herself. Oh, she must do something! This could not happen. With an effort which left her almost breathless, she forced herself to an attempt at sub-mission, an appeal to the woman whose fault, she deeply felt, was so much greater than hers.

  “Marchesa, I have been in the wrong,” she said, struggling to speak steadily. “I know that I ought to have told you, long ago, that Count Roffredo was paying me attentions. But there were-there were special difficulties,” the poor child said, stumbling over this impossible aspect of the affair. “And I did once try to end it. But he would not accept that —and then it began again. And apart from my being in this position, there is of course no real reason why he should not —care for me. But I know that I did wrong not to tell you. But except at Meden, that pnce, I have never let it interfere in any way with my duties to Marietta—never. I have constantly been with her, and tried—oh, even out of lesson hours, I have tried so hard to help her, to make her happy!” She fixed her eyes, now, on the Marchesa’s face, in an intense appeal. “So, if you could perhaps accept my apologies, and-”

  Her voice died away, broken against the older woman’s stony silence, the cruel blankness in her eyes. Nothing she could have said would have shaken the young Marchesa’s angry resolve; but her words about having tried to end the Roffredo affair, and Roffredo’s having insisted on re-opening it woke fresh tortures of jealousy in Suzy’s heart. The thought that while she had been (however delicately and skil-fully) taking the lead, keeping the thing going, the girl had been seeking to stop it, and yet been ardently pursued, was little short of agony. For she could not but believe it—the girl’s face told her it was true. Well, she would do it no more!

  “I cannot alter my decision,” she said coldly. “You must leave.”

  “When?” Almina asked, with white lips. She had realised that there was nothing to be done, even before the Marchesa spoke.

  “At once. The carriage will be here at six to take you to the diligence. There is a train from Gardone to Vienna at eleven.”

  Almina looked helplessly round the room, with her litter of possessions—then at the clock on the bookcase. It was already half-past three. She would barely have time to pack, she thought; even in such moments, the practical exercises its tryanny. Then, as the Marchesa turned towards the door, another thought struck her. Money! She had very little left—not enough to take her to Vienna, far less back to England; those unfortunate purchases of extra clothes to please Roffredo’s eyes had left her small exchequer very bare. Tears came into her eyes at the thought of them. She forced them back, swallowing hard; she must get this, at least, arranged.

  “Marchesa!” she said, rather hoarsely.

  “What is it?” Suzy asked, her hand on the door.

  “My salary,” the girl said. “There is a month owing, and I-”

  “When a person is dismissed for impropriety, it is not usual to pay them any wages,” the Marchesa said, in cold level tones.

  “But you cannot!—there has been no impropriety—you can’t do this!” the girl stammered out. “I—I have no money to get home with!”

  “You should have thought of that before you started on this intrigue—it is no business of mine,” the other retorted, turning the handle of the door.

  Almina darted across to her, desperate now, and seized the handle too.

  “You have no right to do this,” she cried. “It is wrong— it is dishonest! I have a right to my month’s salary, at least. I must have money to get home with.” She was almost beside herself.

  Suzy had of course meant from the outset to pay the girl her wages, and indeed whatever was necessary to get her home—her one desire was to be rid of her. But that unlucky honesty of Almina’s about her attempts to end the affair had made her so angry that she lost all sense of reason. And the girl’s desperate words now angered her still more. She would not be so spoken to—dishonest! She would teach her a lesson. She shook her hand off the knob. “Let me pass, please. I have nothing more to say. But remember that young women who have lost their character have no rights.”

  Almina stood staring at her, her chest heaving with her difficult breath. “This—this is wickedness!” she said, almost in a whisper. “I haven’t lost my character. You want to take it away, out of jealousy! Because he loves me, and he doesn’t love you! I saw you and him, too!—after Castel Vecchio. It is worse with you; you are married. I have a right to love him.”

  At that, Suzy’s full fury, with difficulty held in check till now, blazed out.

  “Be silent! This is insolence!” she said. “You will go, and you will go unpaid. Creeping and stealing out at night, to see him, and if you could not do that, to spy! You have admitted your relation with him, and that you concealed it. If you were to speak, who would believe you—the governess who tries to seduce a rich young man? And you boast to me of your success! You are disreputable! Fawning and wheedling, doing the flowers!—so helpful always! Faugh! Go!” She went out of the room, shutting the door with a sharp snap behind her.

  Almina remained standing where she was, looking at the painted panels of that slammed door. They were painted a deep cream, with faint gold lines on the mouldings, and small golden sprays in the angles of the panels—she saw all these details, in those moments, with intense clearness; she even traced the outline of the nearest spray with her finger. Her stunned mind involuntarily sought to anchor itself on some visible object; by seeing, she tried to shut out the tones of that harsh voice, uttering horrors which still rang in her wounded ears. She had never before met real hatred or cruelty; she
was frightened by it—frightened, and completely crushed. Presently she left the door, and began, wearily and mechanically, to collect her things and carry them into her own room; she pulled out her boxes and started to pack. She did it badly —her hands trembled so that she could hardly fold her dresses, and tears which she could not check constantly blurred her sight. They fell in showers on the green dress which she had worn that day at Castellone, when she and Marietta watched the women at work on the silkworms, and Roffredo took her for a walk and told her, for the first time, that she was beautiful—on the white hat with the green ribbons, which he had so often pulled off that he might play with her hair—every dress had some gay or tender memory of him attached to it. Even bitterer was the other memory of that glad packing at home, so full of hope and expectation; May’s eagerness, and her mother’s love and care. But she went on, in a sort of blind haste—it was as if the need to be ready by six had mesmerised her. And such a horror of the young Marchesa now gradually took her that she wanted only to be gone—gone away, beyond all risk of seeing again that frightening face, distorted with fury, of hearing the terrifying hatred in that voice. What to do she had no real idea, but she must go—and so she must be quick! She was really near to hysteria before she had finished.

  It was only when she was seated in the carriage, driving down the hill, that she began to think seriously what to do next. She counted her money—only forty-five lire; she had had to give a shamefully small tip to Graziella, who had always been so helpful and kind. The diligence, with all that luggage, would be five, dinner would be five—where could she go, or stay, with thirty-five lire? She must do something. The thought of going to Odredo and appealing to Fräulein Gelsicher for help darted into her mind—but Marietta would be there, and Elena, and Giulio; she could not think how to contrive to get hold of Gela without being seen by some of them; and to face them, with all her luggage, dismissed in disgrace, was more than she could bear. They too might think her wicked and shameful—they might already have been told; and who, as Suzy had said, would believe her word, the governess’s, the stranger’s, against that of a relation —married, popular, secure? Ah, there was one person who would believe her, and only one: Roffredo! He would believe, because he knew—he would help her. He had money, would help her to get home. She would rather not have had to ask him, of course—but in her helplessness and despair he, with his love, stood out as her one saviour. She must go to him, somehow.

  The carriage pulled up. It was the diligence stop. Fat old Tommaso climbed down, unstrapped the luggage, and set it among the dusty weeds by the side of the road; he did all this extremely slowly, arranging and re-arranging it, coiling his straps afterwards with meticulous care. Tommaso had orders he did not like—to put down the Inglesina and her luggage at the cross roads at 6.30, and then to return. The diligence would not come till ten minutes to seven, and a pretty signorina like that ought not to be left alone by the roadside, just now at the vintage-time, in particular, when so many of those rascals of peasants were tipsy. Why she was leaving so suddenly he did not know, but she was a pleasant Signorina, always with a kind word—there was no harm in her, he would swear. So he dawdled over the luggage, and then turned his horses round very slowly, leading them; and after that he said the flies were a curse of perdition, and spent more time choosing some boughs of acacia, and biting off the thorns, and fixing them under the absurd straw hats which the animals wore on their heads. At last he had to go, but if the diligence were punctual, there was only five more minutes to wait; he wished Almina good luck, flourished his whip, and trotted off.

  The diligence was however not punctual—it was ten minutes late. Almina, seated on her luggage by the roadside, watched for it anxiously. A man came striding along through the white dust—his bare arms and legs were stained a deep red to above the knees and the elbows, as if they had been dipped in blood; with his dark face and rough hair, in the low light, he was a frightening sight. Almina started at first; then she realised that he had merely been at the vintage, pressing out grapes for wine. He said “Buona sera,” but left her in peace, to her relief. Then a teamster came by, perched on his loaded wain—he saw her, smacked his lips, and made a vulgar gesture. She turned her head away, and suddenly felt a sharp pain across her neck—the teamster laughed loudly; he had flicked her with his whip. Trembling with shame, anger, and helplessness, she sat perfectly still—mercifully he drove on. Oh, would the diligence never come?

  It did come, at last, rattling and swaying round the bend, and drew up at sight of a passenger. The conductor took up her luggage, and asked “À Gardone?” Almina nerved herself to ask her question—could they leave the direct road to Gardone and make a short détour along the Pisignacco road, to set her down at the Villa Gemignana? The driver and conductor looked curiously at her—the young Conte di CasteMone’s house? “Yes,” Almina said, nervously aware of their scrutiny. The two men consulted together, while she waited in painful anxiety. Well, it might be possible, but it was off the proper route, do you see, and it would cost extra, with that copious quantity of luggage. How much? Well, it would be seven lire. This was outrageous—frankly blackmail, but Almina agreed, sighing with relief. Fifteen minutes later the diligence deposited her and her luggage at the door of Count Roffredo’s villa.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Since the completion of his work on the new invention, and the despatch of the blue prints to Milan, some days before, Roffredo had been rather at a loose end. The news of the Marchesa Nadia’s death had reached him—as it had most people in the Province—in the course of the previous day; this prevented him from going to Vill’ Alta, which in any case he felt small inclination to do at the moment, after his unsatisfactory drive home with the Marchesa Suzy from the Meden picnic. That drive had been more than unsatisfactory—it had been rather unpleasant. Suzy had—well, she had practically shown her hand, and it was not a hand that he was prepared to play. And he had been forced to do something like showing his—a thing Roffredo never cared to do unnecessarily, where women were concerned. But Almina he was anxious to see—for his own sake, and to find out whether there had been any “repercussions” on her as a result of the drive. He rather feared it—Holy Virgin, what these women were when they were roused! Look at Nadia, delicious creature that she was—first all that colossal fuss, the consiglio di famiglia and the rest of it, and now committing suicide! And for what? Pure jealousy! But he guessed that under the shadow of that tragedy Almina might be both unable and disinclined to meet him for a day or so—and though he had slipped a sympathetic and enquiring little note into the last remaining stink-horn last night, he had not been surprised to find it, still untouched, when he went this rooming. Sweet little thing, he hoped she would be all right! Anyhow this business of Nadia would presumably keep Suzy quiet for the time being.

  But when Antonio came into the room where he was sitting waiting for dinner, idly turning over the pages of an American engineering magazine, and said that a Signorina was at the door and wished to speak to the Signor Conte, he sprang up with a prophetic pang of suspicion. “Che Signorina?”

  “Quella Signorina inglese, da Vill’ Alta,” Antonio replied.

  “But bring her in! Corpo di Bacco, don’t leave her outside!” And without waiting for the servant, he strode to the door.

  One glance at the girl standing there, with her white face, and her luggage on the path beside her, told him the whole tale, or most of it. O Gesù in Paradiso, what a bitch!

  “Come in, cara,” he said genTLy—“come and sit down. No, leave all that—he will see to it. Antonio! Bring some brandy and soda—quickly!” He led her in, and set her down in the big armchair; took off her hat, the straw sailor which had so impressed Giulio with its youthfulness the day she arrived at Vill’ Alta, and threw it on the divan. He stooped and gave her a quick kiss before the servant returned. “Don’t talk now, little love,” he murmured—“wait till you have drunk something—you look half-dead.”

  “It is
the money—I have no money,” the girl said in a low breathless tone, turning her grey eyes, which looked immense in the dead whiteness of her face, up to his. “But you will lend me enough to get home with, won’t you, Roffredo? You see without money, I can’t do anything”—her voice sank away, on the last words, into the tonelessness of complete despair.

  “Oh, may she rot in hell for ever!” the young man murmured, very softly, to himself. The servant just then bringing in the tray, he poured out a good stiff brandy-and-soda, and gave it to Almina. “Drink that, sweetheart—it will do you good. Yes, of course I will give you money—whatever you need!” He stood looking down at her, as she sat there, gulping over the unwontedly fiery drink, with the signs of tears on her small white face, and wondered exactly what beasdiness Suzy had used to her; it was clear, even to his inexperience, that she was pretty well at the end of her tether.

  “Now,” he said, when she had taken most of it, “tell me. Has Suzy turned you out?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Because of me?”

  The girl blushed deeply. “She said so.”

  “How did she know?”

  “She said we were seen at Meden. She said that I absented myself from my duties to be with you,” the girl said, her lip beginning to tremble. “And you know that isn’t true!”

  “Don’t worry, cara, “he said, taking her hand and fondling it—“here, finish this! Now,” he said, putting down the empty glass—“go on telling me—I want to get it quite clear. Did she say who had seen us?”